Part 23 (2/2)

”Petey ain't seen any, jus' two horses.” The words came from behind the still ready rifle.

”Wai, tell him to look round some more. An' you kin come in, Jas'. These here Rebs ain't gonna be no trouble--is you, sonny?”

Drew shook his head. Luck appeared to be on his side. Once Jas' was in here, they could hope to turn tables on the three of them, with Weatherby and Kirby taking them by surprise.

Jas' appeared in the doorway a moment or so later. He was younger than his two companions, younger and more tidy. His coat was also blue, and he wore a forage cap pulled down over hair very fair in the firelight.

There was a fluff of young beard on his chin, and he carried himself with the stance of a drilled man. Deserter, thought Drew.

The newcomer surveyed Drew and Boyd expressionlessly, his eyes oddly shallow, and tramped past them to hold his hands to the blaze on the hearth, keeping his rifle between his knees. Then he reached up with his weapon, hooked the barrel in the chain supporting the pot, and pulled that to him, sniffing at the now bubbling contents.

”You, Reb”--the big man towered over Drew--”git this friend o' yourn an'

drag him over thar. Us wants to git warm.”

”Drew?” Boyd looked up questioningly, his feverish gaze pa.s.sing on to the guerrilla. ”Where's Sh.e.l.ly?”

The big man's grin faded. His big boot came out, caught Drew's leg in a vicious prod.

”Who's this here Sh.e.l.ly? Whar at is he?”

”Sh.e.l.ly was his brother,” Drew said, nodding at Boyd. ”He's dead.”

”Dead, eh? How come sonny boy here's askin' for him then?” He leaned over them, and his fingers grabbed and twisted at the front of Drew's threadbare sh.e.l.l jacket. ”I ask yuh, Reb, whar at is this heah Sh.e.l.ly?”

He seemed only to flick his wrist, but the strength behind that move whirled Drew away from Boyd, brought him part way to his feet, and slammed him against the wall--where the big man held him pinned with small expenditure of effort.

”Sh.e.l.ly's dead.” Somehow Drew kept his voice even. Kirby ... Weatherby ... They were there. ”Boyd's out of his head with fever.”

Jas' let the pot swing back over the fire, moving toward Boyd to lean over and stare at the boy's flushed face.

”Might be so,” Jas' remarked. ”Two horses, two men. Neither one much to bother about.”

”Better be so!” The big man held Drew tight to the wall and cuffed him with his other hand. Dazedly, his head ringing, Drew slipped to the floor as the other released him. ”Now”--that boot prodded Drew again--”git your friend over thar, Reb.”

Drew stumbled back and went on his knees beside Boyd. His fingers groped under the edge of the blanket, closing on the Colt. Jas' was inspecting the pot again, and Simmy had moved forward to share the warmth of the hearth. With the revolver still in his hand, though concealed by the blanket, Drew pulled Boyd away from the fire as best he could, aware the big man was watching closely.

Jas' reached up to the crude mantel shelf, brought down a wooden spoon, and wiped it on a handkerchief he pulled from an inner pocket.

”This ain't fancy grub,” he observed to the room at large, ”but it's better than nothin'. You want Simmy to bring in Petey, Hatch?”

”Th' cap'n's comin'.” Simmy's remark was made in a tone of objection.

Hatch swung his head around to eye the smaller man.

”You bring Petey in!” he ordered. ”Now!” he added.

For a second or two it appeared that Simmy might rebel, but Hatch stared him down. Jas' scooped out a spoonful of the pot's contents and blew over it.

<script>